I’m a Coastal Grandmother. Stop Appropriating Our Culture.

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TikTok and I have been getting to know each other. For my part, I’ve been trying to learn how to save funny videos. For its part, it’s been sucking the soul out of my body and feeding it back to me bit by bit so I don’t catch on too quickly. But last week, it stopped playing games. It decided to tell me exactly who I am, and I am shook.

I had thought TikTok was just a fun delivery system for rapid-fire recipes, extremely large litters of puppies, and “You go, girl!” inspo from recent divorcées. I’d made a meat loaf that required me to send away for a bottle of Chick-fil-A sauce—it was pretty good—and also a “one pot” dinner that involved both chicken and cream cheese, like I’d lost my goddamn mind. I’d followed a couple of sex workers, some public defenders, a lawyer who taught me how to win every personal argument (apparently, it has something to do with listening, so I haven’t tried it yet), and many new moms showing off their babies.

But, as I’m the last person to discover, TikTok of your DNA.